


come inside from the cold and rest your weary soul (welcome home)

by ErinWrites417



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: And Felicity follows through on her promise to find him again, F/M, Oliver Queen is basically an adorable old grandpa now, Reunion, post 7x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 06:59:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18911890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinWrites417/pseuds/ErinWrites417
Summary: In a realm outside the universe he saved almost twenty years ago, Oliver Queen has a built a quiet life for himself. He cultivates his distractions meticulously to keep the loneliness at bay. Until one day, he doesn't need distractions anymore.After twenty years apart, Oliver and Felicity finally find their way back to one another.





	come inside from the cold and rest your weary soul (welcome home)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joy Williams' Welcome Home (which you should all listen to at some point just for the Olicity feels)
> 
> I confess, this is largely un-betaed. If you spot anything wonky, please let me know.

Gardening turns out to be the most soothing of all his hobbies. Working in the dirt, watching plants grow in neat rows, making sure weeds are eradicated, harvesting fresh vegetables and fruit; he actually feels productive.

And, after years of practice, he’s proud to say he’s actually pretty good at it. He grows everything imaginable and has even started his own orchard, full of at least a dozen different fruit trees.

It took him quite a while to find an effective diversion, a few years at least. Exercise only got him so far. Cooking alone couldn’t fill the time enough to drive him to distraction. Knitting frustrated him. And while building furniture and a canoe had been sufficient for a few years, there was only so much room in his house for his creations. Gardening, however, was never-ending and required diligent care. And daily planning. His work is never done, and that's the way he needs it to be to keep him from over-thinking.

For the love of God, he even learned how to _can_. Fruit and tomatoes are his favorite and he uses them in his cooking regularly to make sauces and incredible desserts; desserts he knows she’d love. He laughs when he thinks about the little farm-to-table operation he has running in his house, feeding the rest of the people here on a regular basis. Visitors frequent his kitchen, hopeful for a taste of that red sauce he’s gotten so good at making.

But at night, the house is quiet. Even almost twenty years into this, the silence bothers him. He longs to hear the sound of his son talking about homework, his daughter’s giggles and squeals, his wife’s quiet muttering as she taps away on her keyboard. Twenty years alone hasn't given him any appreciation for silence.

Instead, he spends most of his time in the bright garden, listening to chirping birds and the sound of the nearby stream rushing past. Diversion is the name of the game, and he’s good at it.

Today, the distraction feels easy. Not every day is like this though, not every day has a seemingly endless to-do list. He spends it readying his large plot of land for planting and then methodically pulling his starters from their pots. The feeling of the dirt under his palms calms him. He ignores the ache in his knees and left shoulder as he works the land, the pain a remnant of the years of training and injuries.

After two straight hours, he rolls his shoulders and glances up at the sun. He wipes a dirt-covered hand across his brow and stands to walk over to the hose drawn from his house where he rinses his hands carefully and washes his face with a damp washcloth. When he sinks down into a red adirondack chair for a moment’s rest, his joints scream in protest. He’s getting too old for this. But all too quickly, his mind cries out for the distraction again. He heaves himself from the chair after only a few minutes, trudging to the wagon filled with seedlings and pulling it toward the adjacent plot to start planting his cucumbers and zucchini in neat rows.  
But a glint of light on metal in the distance catches his eye.

He looks again, sure his mind is playing tricks on him. Again, a flash of white from the same point in the distance. With only five other occupants in this realm, all of them currently miles from here, his heart starts to race with adrenaline. He picks up a trowel from the bed of the wagon, holding it like he would a knife and crouches near the back fence of the garden, waiting for someone—or something—to come through the trees on the border of his yard.

He prays his reflexes are what they used to be. The quiet life hasn’t made him soft by any means, just unpracticed.

The trees rustle and a large man in armor emerges. The Monitor. It’s been at least five years since Oliver had seen him, but a different sort of dread settles in his gut like lead at his appearance. What was he here to ask for now? He drops the trowel into the dirt and straightens, beginning his approach.

But then another figure materializes from the tree-line. His heart stops.

Impossible.

He tries to convince himself his eyes are playing tricks. But the more he stares, the more he knows. It's _her._ Even if her hair is shorter. Even with subtle signs of aging at the corners of her eyes. Felicity.

The pair start to make their way toward his cabin, which he built all those years ago after his arrival here.

Undetected in the shadows, he watches her for just a moment longer. Her stride seems to grow more confident with each step. She’s been waiting just as long as he has. The Monitor points to the door and nods to her before disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

Everything is still for just a moment. The way she twists her wedding ring pulls at something in his chest. His own ring feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket and he pulls it out quickly, pushing it on his finger, aligning perfectly with the perfectly straight tan-line he refuses to lose.

She’s just steps from the backdoor of the house when he steps away from the fence. And he can’t—he _won’t_ —wait any longer.

“Felicity,” he says, not a yell, just a firm declaration. He’s surprised his voice even works.

She turns and her breath audibly catches when she sees him step into the sunlight and it’s like every molecule of oxygen has been sucked from the air between them. He’s unsure of how to go to her, unsure if he should run or just wait for her to come to him. So they just breathe for a moment, eyes locked.

Dreaming of this moment, hoping for it, praying for it—none of that did reality justice. He’s sure she didn’t imagine seeing him for the first time in twenty years with a shirt and jeans smeared with dirt. And he never imagined it would be twenty years. But it doesn’t matter now.

“Oliver,” she finally says and it’s like their feet break free from the gravity holding them in place, their strides sure and purposeful.

They meet in the middle. She doesn’t even have to jump into his arms as he swoops down to lift her, her arms around his neck, his around her waist in the tightest embrace he’s ever experienced. A sob escapes his throat as one of his hands cups the back of her head. It’s all consuming, this embrace, intimate and perfect.  
They sway, holding tight to one another. It's as if time has stopped for this moment in time (and maybe it has, for all Oliver knows).

She smells the same, like lavender and honey and _home_. She feels the same against his chest. Her fingers curl into his shirt, her face finding that spot on the side of his neck, the one she always seemed to find when they would lie in bed together after a long mission. Tears roll down his cheeks into her hair and he feels her lips moving against his neck, his name the only word she seems capable of uttering.

Finally, after an eternity that could never actually be long enough, her toes touch the ground. Her hands find his face, fitting along his jaw like they had all those years ago.

Without hesitation he covers her mouth with his, kissing her with a ferocity borne of years of longing. But their lips move against each other's as if they've never been apart, practiced and familiar. When he slides his hands into her hair, she groans softly and pulls him even closer, pressing her body against his.

When they finally part—both of them panting, only millimeters separating their lips—they don’t open their eyes, lingering and savoring each other the way they’d learned in the early days of their relationship when they never knew what day would be their last.

Felicity opens her eyes at last, searching his face, memorizing every line, every scar, and every part of him that had faded into hazy recollection. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“I like the grey hair,” she says, with a tearful smile, running her thumbs over the salt and pepper at his temples. She laughs thickly when he wipes the tears from her cheeks and grins back at her. "A silver fox, just like I thought."

“Yours is so short. I like it,” he replies, brushing the still blonde strands from her face.

They can’t seem to stop staring at each other. Oliver is sure he’s never going to get tired of it. He brushes his thumbs over her cheekbones again, sobering for a moment.

“God, I missed you,” he chokes, every repressed emotion rising up in his chest, making it almost impossible to speak.

“Me too,” she replies with just as much emotion, pushing up on her toes. Their next kiss is less desperate; this time it’s slow and intense. When they part he presses a soft kiss to her forehead before straightening.

She looks around at the small home he's built for himself. “Where are we?” she asks after a long moment.

“It’s a separate dimension, built for those of us…who didn’t technically ‘survive’ the Crisis,” he explains.

“A pocket universe,” she whispers in confirmation, watching the birds flying overhead, acting as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. He smiles at her nonchalant acceptance. Of course she wouldn’t need any elaboration; his genius wife never did need him to explain much of anything.

He nods and hums at her assessment, still searching her face for the differences, the nuances.

“I just can’t believe you’re here,” he marvels, and good God, she is stunning in the sunlight. “Mia and William? They’re okay? They’re safe?” he asks. She gives him a small nod.

“As safe as they can be trying to save the city. Queen DNA doesn’t seem to lend itself to safe life choices.”

He didn’t expect anything different. He tilts her chin up to gaze into her eyes for emphasis as he speaks.“You did your best to make sure they were ready. And they were ready. They're doing what they were born to do."

She watches him with wide eyes, unable to speak for a moment. She can only nod; he can only hope she believes him.

“And us? What do we do now?” she asks with a tilt of her head. With a soft smile, one she’d only ever seen directed at her and Mia, he strokes his hand along the side of her face. He leans in slightly so he can whisper his words against her lips before kissing her once again.

“We live.”


End file.
